


Sum of More than His Parts

by Merfilly



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Character Study, Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/pseuds/Merfilly
Summary: Charles Winchester, shaped from a negligent father, annealed in war, and molded into a caring man that reaches out quietly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GasOnMyHands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GasOnMyHands/gifts).



> Written for gas-on-my-handss on tumblr for the [M*A*S*H Fanworks Exhange](http://mashfanworkexchange.tumblr.com/)

Charles sat on the bed, trying to stomach the latest round of frustration and disappointment he felt, the sensation of being a failure in his father's eyes. 

The door opened, and his sister came around the edge of it.

"Ch-Charles," she said with care to her words, trying to keep the stutter to a minimum. "You are muh-more than Father will ev-ever amount to," she assured him. "I know this."

Her eyes were shining with faith and trust in him, and even though his first urge had been to strike out, share his hurt by inflicting it on her, he could not. They had each other, and Honoria had always supported him, as he had defended her.

"Thank you, my sister. I believe, as the adage stands, only time shall tell if you, or Father, is correct on how my life will reflect upon our family.

+++

Charles did not even try to hide his wrath at the draft summons, but at least his family was good for one thing in this travesty. He had an appointment to a good place in Tokyo, and could polish his skills in thoracic surgery.

The 4077th changed those plans, introducing him to the true horrors of 'meatball surgery', taking all of his perseverance and skill to the proverbial wood-chopper. He resented the assignment, wished only to despise the lowly born that he was forced to cohabit with.

Yet, slowly, his life changed. He was Charles Emerson Winchester the Third, and yet…

… the human condition of his straits forced him to consider the gap between who he had come to the war as, who he was evolving into, and what the end result would be. Every near truce had him longing for home, for true civility, for the life he had known.

Every broken peace talk reminded him that his life would never be the same, affected as it was by the sheer number of lives he had touched, that had impacted his. Hiding in his music, his dictated letters, and his sheer snobbery was not enough to keep the thrust of the war away.

He wondered, sitting up late with Pierce one night for a call from Crabapple Cove, to be certain the health scare had been no more than that, what his father would think when he finally returned home.

+++

There was no discussion of the war in the Winchester home. Charles had returned home, and while there had been something of a festive atmosphere, it was for the fact he was taking his rightful place within society.

There was no laurel wreath to adorn his naked brow for his service to humanity. There was no heartfelt understanding for the trials and tribulations of his time within that festering camp.

Life, for the Winchesters, moved in the same pattern it had before Charles had ever left. It put a sour taste in the man's mouth, but he swallowed down all expectations and played the part he was meant to hold in his family. There was a stagnation that he was all too aware of now, one that left him choking for fresh air in the middle of a fine cigar shared with the upper crust of society. None of them seemed the least bit aware of the sacrifices, the gouges against honor, and the sheer toll in humanity that the war had wrought.

Worse, to Charles' way of thinking, they didn't want to know. He knew, before ever going there, he would have been just as delightfully and willfully ignorant.

After all his time arguing, stridently at times, with his tent-mates, with the enlisted, with his superior officer, Charles discovered he no longer truly felt the need to fight here. His family were as they would be, and he had changed, evolved to something more than he had been.

Rather than fight the brick walls they all were, excepting his dear sister, he would find a way to use both who he had been born, and who he had become to make more of life.

+++

The curly haired man looked vaguely familiar, and Charles couldn't quite figure out why. He was so far from his own neighborhood, a vague idea of his plans in place. He'd been told of the real estate that would meet his needs, even as the friend he'd approached told him it was impossible. There were growing racial tensions, as a minister named King pushed for greater rights in his ethnic group. 

Charles thought it Sounded like the prime time to reach out, now, before such a fight spiraled into violence, and people had need of the clinics he was dreaming of.

With a care to where the other man was, Charles began surveying the site. It had the size. There were adequate utilities available, though phone lines would probably need to be paid for so the clinic had the ability to call for ambulatory services if needed.

"Looking for a place to renovate for some business venture?"

The other man was addressing him, something on his face making Charles aware that this other man was not in favor of that idea at all.

"Actually, no," Charles answered. "A bit of philanthropy, perhaps, but it will be not for profit from the very beginning."

"Oh?" The man gave a broad-shouldered shrug. "Color me curious, because I don't see many people talking with your accent down here."

Charles felt that niggling familiarity again, and held his hand out, deciding to use Pierce's bold example. "Charles Winchester."

" **The** Charles Winchester? Boston Mercy, Thoracic?" the man asked, looking vaguely impressed.

"Why, yes," Charles answered, surprised.

"John McIntyre, Faulkner Hospital, also thoracic," the man said, and Charles' eyes went wide open.

"Trapper John," he said, and the other doctor looked at him in shock. "I'm sorry, but… four oh seven seven?"

McIntyre smiled broadly and he nodded. "Yeah, l was there."

"You were Pierce's friend," Charles said warmly. "I forgot he said you were from Massachusetts. This is… remarkable."

McIntyre shook his head. "Not really, not if you're looking to try and start a clinic here. I have a feeling you're looking to take the war and make something good of it." He looked over the property. "Same reason I started scouring the city, even if I have no idea how I'm going to con the resources for it out of the directors and investors, so I can get back to helping people with nowhere to go."

Charles shifted and put a companionable arm around the other man's shoulders, leaning in with a conspirator's voice. "John… or do you prefer Trapper, still?… How would you like to go into business with me, helping our fellow man?"

"I think I like the way you think, Charles. Why don't we go talk this out over martinis that won't rot our gut, and see what we can figure out?"

+++

"I-I to-told you," Honoria said, as they discreetly viewed the groundbreaking ceremony, driven by all the money and prestige a Winchester could pull together. "You wi-will be remembered more th-than Father."

Charles smiled kindly at her, but shook his head. "My only wish now, is for the people this clinic helps to go on and live stronger lives, my dear sister. Like the soldiers that came back, and in memory of those that did not."

"Noble… and per-perfect," she decreed, squeezing his hand in hers.


End file.
